The End or the Beginning
As Emma was biting her nails at two a.m she looked furtively at her husband who was sleeping in their bed. She’d thought about this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, she was unsure what to do. He snored, turned over and she slowly, quietly let out a breath that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
When they got married three years ago, she’d felt like the luckiest woman alive. Every word of that old cliché was true. Neil was earning good money and had insisted she give up work. Initially thrilled, she soaked in the luxury of time. Soon she lost contact with old colleagues and friends with whom she had nothing to talk about. She spent her days gazing out of the window or willing the phone to ring.
She tiptoed out of the bedroom, her heart pounding like an African drum in her chest, and quietly closed the door behind her. Thick piled carpets swallowed the sound of her movements. Creeping down the corridor she imagined his large body filling the door frame and asking, “Where are you going?” “To the bathroom,” she’d reply and then she’d have to get back into bed.
Looking back it had already started before the wedding. The subtle criticisms, the odd aggressive outburst. The signs had been there.
The black and white cups that she had washed up before bed were standing on the draining board. It had taken her a long time to realise that the hot chocolate Neil kindly made for her before bed every night contained two little sleeping pills. She prodded and poked her bruised face, trying to remind herself how much it hurt.
When they moved into this flat he had installed another lock on the front door. “You can never be too careful!” he’d said, forgetting to give her the key week after week, month after month until she stopped asking for it.
Tonight was the night as Neil had left his keys on the kitchen table instead of locking them inside his bedside cabinet. Most nights she welcomed sleep, but not tonight. The cold enveloped her, but she felt nothing. Numb to the core.
L. Besley
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
This week saw the third installment of Flash Fortnightly on the Artipeeps website. Click here for A Burnt Orange Sari, inspired by a photo I saw on facebook. I don't know the woman, but the sari was beautiful and I had that in mind when I wrote the piece.
This week I set up a facebook page and if you could 'like' the page, I'd be very grateful! Click here for Laura Besley Writer.
I've also stepped, rather gingerly, into the 21st century and have set up a twitter account! If you'd like to follow me, I can be found bumbling my way through this technology @laurabesley
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Flash Fiction is short enough to read whilst you're waiting for the kettle to boil. It's fairly quick to write too, but with it being so short, every word has to count.
On 4th May 2012 I decided to embark on a project: to write a piece of Flash Fiction every day. I'm hoping this will keep the creative juices flowing and ultimately help me hone my craft. Every Friday I'll be posting 'the best of the week' onto my blog for you to read. If you have anything to say (good or 'constructive'!), I'm open to comments.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
